


Every You, Every Me

by tokyonightskies



Category: One Piece
Genre: Brotherhood, Canon Divergence, Hints at Incest, M/M, Marine!Roci, Mentions of Slavery, Multi, Subtle Threats/Seduction, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you know, Roci…” Doffy begins in a voice that only spells out trouble. As if he knows something Rocinante doesn’t, has never thought about until it’s said and done. “That Sengoku keeps your marine file in his desk?”</p>
<p>There’s something comforting about how unpredictable his brother is, something he can count on at least when there’s nothing else to rely on. He grabs a commentary on their great-great grandmother and puts it on top of the others, on the pile of papers he doesn’t really suspect his brother to read thoroughly. </p>
<p>“I didn’t.” He responds tiredly as he shuts the drawer and leans against the wall, “Do I want to know how you know?”</p>
<p>Doffy comes to stand next to him, tilts his head back until Roci can glimpse at his eyes from the side, and teases, “I looked, of course.”</p>
<p>--- or what if Rocinante wasn't allowed to infiltrate the Donquixote family and got promoted to the position of vice-admiral. These installments deal with "canon" events, the relationship with a warlord!Doflamingo and a saved!Law from Rocinante's perspective as a marine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every You, Every Me

**Author's Note:**

> First installment of a series: 
> 
> What if Rocinante wasn't allowed to infiltrate the Donquixote family and eventually got promoted to the position of vice-admiral? This simple question brought forth this waterfall of words. While this piece mostly focuses around the Donquixote brothers, I've taken some artistic license regarding the possible powers of Roci's devil fruit, reconsidered Vergo's position as a double-spy and Doffy's slave trafficking activities. Seeing as I don't know Doflamingo's age when he got promoted to the position of Warlord, I've tried to keep those details purposely vague but saw his promotion as something that happened after the coup d'état at Dressrosa. 
> 
> I look forward to feedback, especially in regards to characterization. Constructive criticism (language, grammar, chronology, etc.) is also much appreciation.
> 
> Dedicated to georginoschkavincen, who has not only helped me immensely in writing this installment but also in envisioning the next one.

_every you every me_

“Eerie.” He mumbles as he taps the pirate on his forehead with his index and middle finger.

It’s not instantaneous, but gradual. The pirate laughs when he notices nothing appears to have happened, but the deep, grating guffaw stammers suddenly. He tilts his head to the right and crosses his arms over his chest as the pirate starts to talk. Everything he is saying however, is nonsense: strung-on sentences and questions the pirate himself doesn’t appear to hear, and the longer he keeps rambling the higher and more distressed his pitch becomes. Rocinante hears the shuffling of feet on the deck, the jeering and yelling of the other pirates, but continues watching the pirate in front of him with heightened interest. It won’t be long now before the silence becomes  _maddening_.  

The pirate doubles over on the deck as he clutches his head in desperation. His knees hit the wood with a hollow thud. Some of his crew members grimace at the sight and others turn away in discomfort. They’re ushered together on one spot under the mast and are being held under tight surveillance by his marines. He fumbles a cigarette out of his package and manages to light it after two or three tries. The telltale click of his silver lighter is drowned out by the pirate’s piercing screams.

It’s fairly windy out on the North Blue but the tides are shifting quickly, he notices almost absentmindedly. When their little tumble with these pirates began the breeze was definitely coming from the southwest, now it seems to be from the northeast. Rocinante presses his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to regard the pirate more clearly as he claws at his own throat. The right corner of his mouth twitches, curves upwards.

“Make it stop!! Oh.. Please, please, make the silence stop!!” This comes out as full-blown begging, done away with the dignity of his position as captain, the splendor of his crimson coat and polished leather boots.

His crew starts to murmur amongst themselves and a few threaten to lash out but the barrels of the marines’ rifles keep them firmly in place. Rocinante takes a long drag and holds his cigarette casually between thumb and index finger as the pirate crawls over to him and tugs on the pant leg of his crisp white uniform. Something unpleasant coils in his gut and he swallows reflexively, tasting the staleness on his tongue. The pirate’s expression is one of pure agony. 

Rocinante perks up instantly, smiling and says, “Sure. Allow me.”

He snaps his fingers curtly and starts to circle around the pirate in a slow strut. Smoke coils along the shape of his open mouth as he exhales. Composed until the very moment he almost trips over his own feet and makes an unceremonious movement to remain standing. This spectacle causes a great commotion under the pirate crew and a loud gunshot into the air alone can force them to shut up again. Rocinante chuckles awkwardly as he comes to stand in front of the pirate again. He’s still recuperating on the deck, staring up at Rocinante’s knees with large frightened eyes. Goosebumps cover the back of his hands and wrists and continue most likely along the flesh of his arms, but it’s hidden by the sleeves of his crimson coat. 

“Right, so…” Rocinante begins, scratching his chin idly as he looks down onto the pirate. “You and your crew are put in my custody until we drop you off on the next marine base. All evidence of illegal activities and cargo of unlawful nature will be confiscated by the world government. I’d really appreciate it if you told me what to look for in advance…" 

His cigarette falls onto the deck and he stomps down hard to put it out properly, wedging the sole of his boot down on the wood. The pirate seems shocked by how loud this action is and falls backwards flat on his ass. 

“What kind of big-shot marine are you?!” He bites back in terror, in hot-boiling rage with his features contorted in an angry snarl. 

Rocinante smiles down at him and replies, “I’m a vice-admiral. No need to introduce yourself, you’re not that important. Now, unless you want the silent treatment again, can I get my info please?”

Humiliated and under the scrutiny of his fearful crew, the pirate captain confesses how they’ve got hundred thousand belli worth of extortion money in a chest under his bed and contraband weapons in the hull of the ship. 

Rocinante waves a hand in the direction of the latch, leading to the lower deck and the hull, and hears the stampeding boots of two marines thump loudly on the wood. It doesn’t surprise him when the pirate visibly winces and coils into himself. He orders his men to round them up and watches how they salute him proudly, and poke the pirates with the barrels of their rifles to get them moving.

What an ordeal for some belli and a couple of rifles, Rocinante contemplates silently as he reaches for his package off cigarettes in the pocket of his gray pants again. He turns towards the ocean, with his marine coat bellowing against his calves and the wind ruffling his fringe. With his right hand, he tries to shield the flickering flame of his lighter but it’s difficult and annoying. He bites down onto the filter in irritation. The fight hadn’t been much of a hassle since they’d managed to catch the pirates off guard, but he’d taken a nasty fall from the stairway leading up to the captain’s cabin. His right elbow and both of his knees protested his every move during the battle since then.

At least they didn’t hear him fall because he’s certain his body would’ve made quite a noise. His soundproof sphere proved really handy once again. 

“Allow me, vice-admiral.” Vergo offers politely from his right and opens his palm for the lighter. 

Rocinante leans over a bit so Vergo can reach and waits for the satisfying flicker of flame. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, watching the smoke blow from between his pursed lips. Tension rolls off his shoulders as he leans forwards over the railing and stares at the horizon. Vergo follows his example and props himself against the railing, back facing the ocean, arms crossed over his chest. 

He exhales slowly and mutters, “Roci will do just fine.“ 

The corners of his mouth twitch, the ghost of a private and familiar fond smile plays along his lips for a split-second. Vergo adjusts his sunglasses and replies, “Professional context I’m afraid." 

"We’re alone now.” Rocinante proffers with a teasing edge to his tone of voice, playful like his smile. 

He presses his cigarettes between the seal of his mouth and inhales. Vergo shakes his head lightly, his posture relaxed and almost vulnerable with his shoulders curved inwards and his right foot flat against the wood of the railing. He doesn’t comment however, opting to enjoy the silence with him. They’re standing so close to each other Roci’s elbow touches Vergo’s flank. Unconsciously, he leans in even closer, not giving a damn about the impropriety of the action. 

Secretly he revels in the other’s presence, warmth and comfort. Most of all in his unshakeable strength, something Rocinante has gotten accustomed too ever since Vergo got assigned to his squad. 

He’s roughly shaken from the calmness of the moment by the banging sound of the latch door makes when it smashes open on the deck. Rocinante almost drops his cigarette in shock and the smack resounds in between his ribcage. He whips his head into the direction of the two marines he’s sent below deck and sees how one of them is carrying an iron strongbox in his hands. 

"Vice-admiral Rocinante!” The one who is able to, salutes seriously, clacking his feet together. 

Taking a slow puff, he pushes his shades down and questions with smoke curling around the corners of his mouth, “Yes?" 

Vergo brings his hands behind his back as he circles the marine holding the strongbox. He’s second in command on Rocinante’s marine ship and walks around with a sense of authority that comes easy to him. His muscled figure, stern almost stoic face and fearsome abilities add to his character, but there’s something battle-hardened about him even Roci can’t place.

"We found the weapons. Rifles and pistols mostly, they’re marine models.” Here the marine trails off and hides his eyes behind his cap as he tilts his head downwards, “We also found cages." 

His teeth clamp down on the filter of his cigarette. His fingers twitch irritably. He bristles, "What? Animal smuggling or…" 

"They were big enough to hold humans, maybe even fishmen, sir.” His voice is tiny, with a tinge of fear. 

He throws his cigarette into the ocean with a movement much more fluent than anyone expected. Vergo immediately falls into step with him when he marches to the nearest plank bridging the distance between this ship and his. His crew knows better than to get in between their vice-admiral and his intended target when there’s so much anger in him. Everyone is aware of how volatile he gets, of how much havoc he can wreak and everyone is in  _agreement_  that they don’t want to be one of the idiots who invoke it. 

Vergo suppresses a sly smirk when one marine, still a cadet really, almost trips over himself to get out of the way.

"Ravage the place. Look for any documents, receipts, whatever that may implicate human trafficking or slavery. And bring me that bastard, I want to make him squeal for lying straight to my face.” Rocinante mutters angrily as he strides over to the staircase leading to the lower deck. 

He pauses for a moment, standing still under the sails. If the dark clouds rolling in from a distance aren’t a telltale sign of the incoming storm, than the sudden clamminess and sharp wind certainly is. Rocinante grits his teeth and curses his bad luck under his breath. This will complicate the search. They still need to confiscate all the contraband weaponry and it’s hard enough balancing the wobbly planks without raindrops pelting down on their shoulders. He needs to send in more men, but they’re tired from the fight. Those pirates weren’t particularly strong, they only had numbers and it’s a hassle to contain all of them within the cells without having to spare some extra marines to serve as guards. 

Vergo seems to have picked up on his train of thought and nods to himself before offering, “I’ll hold watch. They’ll be kept in check accordingly.” His tone of voice drops low,  and to Rocinante’s ears it almost sounds husky, “If you’d like, vice-admiral." 

There’s hesitation in the way he stuffs his hands into his pockets and dips his chin down. Rocinante peers at him from behind his sunglasses. 

"I’ll dispatch the men immediately.” He responds curtly, with a small smile. Not that the grounds for his anger are corroded, nor the hotbed quenched, but the cool calm of Vergo’s behavior proves a soothing balm.

Two steps in the direction of the staircase to the lower deck and a female marine comes running towards them, looking harried and distressed. Her uniform is dirty, her forehead has a nasty-looking gash and the hair of her temples is wet from sweat. She salutes the both of them accordingly, shouting out their titles in a hoarse voice. Her hand immediately shoots up to the leathery sling of her musket, steadying the weapon on her back with a sharp tug.

“Missive from HQ. Fleet-Admiral Sengoku wants to speak to you on the private line, sir.” She sounds tired, strung-out and worn-out from the battle. He notices how unsteady she stands on the deck.

Vergo dismisses her with the wave of a hand and turns around to face Rocinante, bringing his back to the other marines on the deck. His hair is windswept and the collar of his white cloak batters against his chin. He stuffs his hands down his pockets and gives one sharp nod, conveying everything Rocinante needs to know. _He’ll take care of things_. Then, he walks towards the staircase leading to the lower deck, briskly but with purpose. As Roci watches him leave, he finds himself wondering what the hell was so important for Sengoku to want to talk to him privately. The wind picks up again, fiercely, unpredictable. He reaches up for his sunglasses and pries them from his face, blinking, before clipping them on the collar of his sweater. The sails flap and some of his men are shouting to adjust the ropes.

It all looks a bit too much like a bad omen, to him at least. No need to get the flutters, he reassures himself as he treks to his cabin. It can’t be _that_ bad.

He was wrong.

“Does Law know about this?!” His shriek causes the snail phone to wince visibly, snapping its eyes back abruptly, in shock.

There’s no response for a while; just the hesitating crunch of teeth cracking down on a rice cracker, the wet chewing, the gulp suddenly too loud and too conscious, a palm smacking down onto something – a desk, perhaps, but also possibly the arm rest of a wooden chair. Rocinante dreads whatever comes next, dreads what he’s already digested, morsels of unpleasant information. More clouds on what should’ve been an easy and sunny day. He feels sick to his stomach and fumbles around to light a cigarette, to ease the nerves or something. It certainly won’t make him feel less sick.

Sengoku overcomes his hesitation, speaking up cautiously, “I was hoping you would contact him.”

Contact him was an euphemism for _placate him_. Rocinante drops down in his chair but the movement was too rash, too fast-paced and he finds himself in a heap on the floor, thrown over backwards with his legs in the air, knees folded over the seat. He lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a puff, happy that his sunglasses didn’t bounce out of his collar and break apart on the floor. Squinting his eyes shut for a moment, he gathers his wit, pushes himself upright and settles his chair on four legs again. This is bad, as if there’s no better description of the current situation, as if all eloquence and pretense was knocked out of him, like his breath when he fell down. This is bad, with a point to finish everything off, as if it would be the end of it. While it’s only the beginning.

How can he break this to Law? _Gently_ omitted at the end because the reality weighs like a stone on his shoulders. How could he possibly dress this up as anything but a betrayal from a government that already fucked him over once, in the worst way imaginable. Sengoku asks for his attention by repeating his name over and over, a recorded mishap. He taps his cigarette, watches a clump of ash splat into flakes on the yellowish bottom of his ash tray.

“I’m sorry, Rocinante.” Sengoku doesn’t say this as his commanding officer, the tone is too fatherly, too confidential. This one was over his head, he explained, bargained by phantom hands above him, on another level.

Politics, Sengoku had tried to explain him once when he was still a child and restless and above all so afraid, was a necessary evil. And from his childish thoughts came the innocent rebuttal: what are the marines then, except for the hands and feet and eyes of that necessary evil? His answer came in a demure smile, a fatherly pat on the head, a ruffle of his hair by thick battle-worn fingers. You’ll understand when you’re older.

“Please try to reason with the boy. That he won’t come to harm no matter what. I can pull quite some strings myself too, in my position of Fleet-Admiral.” He continues, with as background noise the rumpling of a plastic bag, the crack of a rice cracker snapped in half.

Rocinante takes another drag, exhales a rush of smoke through his nose. He murmurs softly, “Promise me.”

The snail, so akin in likeness to his surrogate father, blinks slowly, owlishly. Rocinante expects Sengoku to hold his rice cracker in front of his mouth, unopened. Teeth glued together as he mulls it over in his head. He’s not a man who likes to lie, he’s not a man who likes to break a promise and what Roci is asking of him is something he couldn’t possibly keep.

“I’ll do the best I can.” It’s meant to be consolatory. It’s meant to be _enough_.

He says his goodbyes and signs off. He throws an inkpot to the opposite wall, feels satisfaction in how the glass shatters with a crash, how the ink sinks into the wood and creates a sinister black spot. His fingers inch towards his ashtray, his teeth clamp down on his filter, his heartbeat thrums excitedly in between his ears. This is bad, as a preliminary for _this gets worse_.

Donquixote Doflamingo has been recently promoted to the position of warlord. – _I wanted to tell you before you got ahold of a newspaper, Rocinante._ That too was meant to be consolatory, but at least the newspaper could’ve given him a paper cut, could’ve given him some blood and pain to fret over, to take the edge off the news. He’s smoked his cigarette to the filter. All that’s left is a spine of ash, threatening to fall onto his lap. Shakily, he brings up his fingers and brackets the stump of orange between them, stomps the remains into the ashtray.

Funny for someone who specializes in silence, how desperately he wants to scream now, wants to show his rage in a blustering show of noise and violence. Rocinante reaches for the top drawer, where he keeps Law’s den den mushi, but before he manages to pull the damn thing open, a curt knock on the door interrupts him. With the heel of his palm, he smacks the drawer and it slams shut with a _thunk_ and he places both his hands on his desk, trying to calm himself but only a little. Stalling the inevitable.

“Come in.” He sounds out of breath.

_It was imposed on me by the World Government and I don’t know how your brother did it, Rocinante but he did and my hands are tied. This was not my decision to make._ He had wanted to grit out: but you’ll execute it regardless, but it sounds petty and petulant even to his own ears. His mind has a reel of imagines, spinning in front of his eyes; a familiar face, a triumphant grin, pierced ears, his older brother as he had last saw him in the newspaper. When they’d announced he had a king for a brother and depicted him in black and white; on a rectangular picture that cut him off by his waist, that’s the last time he had a clear view of what Doffy looked like. The last time he had seen him in the flesh, was during the extraction mission. He’d thought of Law then and felt his blood run cold.

Vergo notices the stained glass on the floor but doesn’t comment. For this, Rocinante is immensely grateful. Trails of ink roll down the wall, in a leisured pace, in no hurry to reach the wooden planks of the floor. There’s ink down there too, settling in from a broken container. It’s too dark inside the quarters for the glass to shimmer, but it glints nervously, for those who bother to look long enough. Rocinante opens his package of cigarettes again. His tongue swipes over his teeth and he tastes what he had for breakfast, he tastes the black tea he drank before they started the mission.

“That was fast.” Wired, he’s always found it a strange adjective to describe someone, but now he _understands_. It’s like he’s constricted from inside, throat stuffed up by strings.

Don’t think about it. Focus.

There’s nothing reproachful about the way Vergo approaches him in sure-measured steps. His footsteps sound solid, a welcome diversion from the hammering in his head. Sengoku’s snail phone is snoozing and he moves to put it away, shoves it to the side of his desk next to his pencil case. It doesn’t stir, merely settles in its position like a sleeping statue.

“He got rather loose-lipped when I broke the table with one clear punch.” Vergo answers calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. Smirk tugging on the left side of his mouth, a rare show of smugness.  

Shaking his head, Roci settles his elbows on the desk, smiling and mutters good-naturedly, “Lemme guess, he didn’t call you marine commander?”

“Manners are important, vice-admiral. I merely reminded him of that.” He adds the title to make a point. As he’s known to do, whether by words or by fists. They’ve sparred before, he knows what Vergo can do.

His smile lingers, around the filter of his cigarette and he asks, “So what did he deign to tell you, anything concrete?”

“He’s nobody important, but he certainly knows his own status well enough. At least one redeeming feature, I’m sure. Deals strictly in transport. No questions asked as long as the belli keeps rolling in. Routes are susceptible to change. Whoever they work for has access to marine intel, or so the pirate claims, because they’ve never once encountered a marine vessel.” Vergo doesn’t look concerned as he says this, presses his fingertips down on the edge of his desk. They’re much darker in here, but when he pushes the crescents of his nails onto the wood, they whiten.

Rocinante raises his brows, replies almost thoughtlessly, “Except for now.”

It’s not a rebuttal Vergo gives him, this is more a comment in the margins, “There were no slaves on board.”

“Mmh, suppose you’re right. Anything else?”

“A name.. Well, an alias most likely. He said the slave broker that is employing them calls himself Joker. They never met though, he was quick enough to assure me. And I believe him. Like I said, he’s nobody important. Base of operations is Sabaody, but you know just as I do that we can’t throw our weight around there. Not if the Celestial Dragons don’t want it.” His brows are knitted together, he stuffs his hands in his pockets again when he says this.

Ash splats on his lap and with a scowl, he moves to wipe it off. Some gets stuck to the groves of his palm, speckled flakes of gray and white, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. He puts his cigarette in the ashtray and claps the ash off his hands, holding them between himself and the desk as he does. Vergo seems amused by the display and lowers his head to conceal his private smile. Rocinante meanwhile tries to keep the conversation going.

“Joker? That’s not really imposing, not for someone running a trafficking network.”

A shrug, almost deliberate in its nonchalance. He mutters, “Maybe they thought it was funny.”

Somehow Rocinante doubts this, but for now any explanation seems likely or; _your guess is as good as mine_. He takes a drag, tilts his head back and exhales. A checklist in his mind and it only rattles on, like chains. One quick glance out of the small circle of a window prompts him to settle upright again, to make his next move. It’s overcast, no more in the distance, but suddenly the bad weather is close-by. They need to move.

“Do you think the sweep’s complete?” His question comes with a thin translucent stream of smoke.

He didn’t want for it to sound as a dismissal, but Vergo incomprehensibly just seems to _know_. As if the color of his voice gave him away, grizzled and gray, stale like the cigarette taste on his tongue. Not willing to notice how the marine commander in front of him straightens his back and clacks his feet together and salutes him with too much authority, too much responsibility; Roci looks at the ashtray with its pitiful cigarette butts and adds another one, forcefully. The still-burning clump of ash gets squashed, repeatedly.

“I will check for you, vice-admiral.” He says before he takes his leave and leaves Roci watching him.

It’s time for him to call Law, but his mind still hasn’t made up what to say. How to say it. Because he knows just as well as Law that Doffy’s promotion to warlord is indescribable and inexplicable. Inexcusable is perhaps the best word to define the entire situation, but it’s irreversible and that’s sadly the end of that. This is bad _going on_ this only gets worse. His fingertips drum impatiently against the drawer, then he jerks it open in one stuttering movement. He reaches for the den den mushi, grabs all the mechanics and starts installing it on the desk. Prepares to make a call.

.

He must be the only marine to sit down in a shower cubicle, but he’s also the only marine who doesn’t trust his own sense of balance on the slippery wet tiles. His back is pressed against the frosted glass, his head’s dipped forwards as lukewarm water sprays down on his mop of darkened blond hair and his legs are uncomfortably folded against his chest. Sea-salt and sweat wash off him, the soles of his feet now clean and pale as the sand gets sloshed towards the metallic gray drain, and the open wounds on his kneecaps no longer sting from the standard issued soap. He tripped over his discarded gray pants on the way to the shower and fell down unceremoniously, arms outstretched and waving and mind somewhat in a state of disbelief during the whole three seconds of the fall until he found himself in a heap on the floor.

It’s been a whole month since any of the marine reports mentioned a sighting of Law and the last one stated he was assembling a pirate crew and seemed to be traveling around in what was a yellow submarine. Bile clotted his throat when he read the reports and the awfulness was incredibly difficult to swallow back down. It’s surely rotting on the bottom of his stomach, alongside every other terrible, almost superstitious feeling he’s ever felt.

Rocinante clenches his fist, unclenches and drops the coarse washing cloth onto the tiles with a wet plop. Foam gathers at the white tiled-side opposite of where he’s sitting. It reminds him of waves crashing the shore, and the thought pushes a humorless smile on his lips. His toes curl subconsciously, try to grit through the ceramic. The water runs cold and he sighs despondently, tries to gather his wits and stands back up. Moping around in the shower isn’t going to help him get through this day, even though it was an appealing plan in his eyes. Doffy was rumoured to come visit HQ today and he was hell-bent on keeping himself scarce.

With a towel around his waist and his scarred backside on full display, he collects his clothes from the floor of the moderately small bathroom and trudges back into his room. As a vice-admiral, there are some perks to be enjoyed with private lodging being one of them. Not that his personality is reflected in the bleak walls, the sparse furniture nor the items scattered on his desk. From his window, he can overlook one of the marketplaces of Marineford Town and the hustle and bustle from the marines off duty and their families can easily distract him for hours on end if he’s lost in thought.

Vergo stands in the open doorway leading to the hallway, with his white coat zipped shut and his arms crossed over his chest. If he’s discomforted by the indecency or embarrassed to see his commanding officer with nothing but a flimsy towel over his crotch, he doesn’t show it. Rocinante walks over to the large rectangular window, drops his clothes on his desk and closes the blinds.

“Any news on the slavers?” He begins conversationally, casting a glance over his shoulder as the beaded cord of the wooden blinds slides over his slick palms.

Pushing himself off the doorframe, Vergo stalks to the center of the room and reaches for Rocinante’s pale pink sweater, grabs it by the shoulders and gracefully slings it open on the desk with the sleeves outstretched, he then proceeds to smoothen the wrinkles out of the fabric with nimble fingertips. His silence lingers in stark contrast with the clack-clack-clack of the wooden slates unrolling. Next, he takes the clean cotton boxers into his hands and places them dutifully on top of the sweater.

“Red herrings and dead ends, mostly. Pseudonyms and epithets if we’re lucky, but even then it’s useless information on the long run.” He says this after weighing his words carefully on the tip of his tongue. His right thumb runs over the elastic of the boxers, his head is bowed.

There’s the bitter tone of disappointment soaking his words when he speaks, “Well, shit.” Rocinante turns to face Vergo, with water still sliding down the curve of his sternum, down the cradle of his jaw, down his strong neck and he continues, “So this Joker guy stays out of shot while his shrimps face minimum penalties? We haven’t even fucking caught one of those pirates with slaves on their ships. Only cages, bloodied rags, receipts like they’re transporting cattle instead of…”

Vergo hands him his boxer shorts; his sunglasses obscuring how his gaze shamelessly rakes over bare skin, lean muscle, scar tissue and the golden happy trail around his belly button, his shoulders straight and his posture straighter, statuesque and professional. The towel unfurls, falls off his hips and down to the floor. Rocinante doesn’t bother picking it up, even if his lower back is still wet and his hair is even wetter, a honeycomb color, darker than usual. He changes, unperturbed by Vergo’s presence. They’re marines, they live on ships and in small quarters, everyone’s seen somebody naked in the barracks before by accident or not, or in the communal showers, or in the privacy of their bunk sheets scented of laundry detergent. Their fingers brush briefly.

“You’ve been summoned, vice-admiral.” He informs him dryly, balling his left hand to a fist against his leg.

“Roci. We’re in my room, you’re allowed to call me Roci here, Vergo.” Rocinante rebukes easily, smiling softly as he buttons and zips up his pants, and adjusts his belt.

An uneasy shift, pushing the weight of his authority onto his left leg as he cranes his neck and puts his hands out of sight, behind his back. Vergo wets his plush lips before saying, “I know.” He looks at his face but it’s difficult to tell with those sunglasses if he stares at Roci’s eyes or Roci’s mouth, continues, “But I was sent here on a professional pretext.”

“I’ve taken notice.” The reply is accompanied by the same soft smile as the previous one, his fingertips pulling at the hem of his sweater, edging down his flanks, adjusting the sleeves around his wrists. “Sengoku knows he has to be patient with me, Vergo.”

“The Fleet-Admiral didn’t send for you, Roci.” There’s something about how Vergo pronounces the nickname, with patience and a note of reverence, but also with a hint of complacence, almost as if he’s just humoring him with the twist of tongue, the two syllables.

Sharp intake of breath; mouth still open and ‘o’-shaped, expressive eyes narrowed in surprise, he subconsciously wrings his black beanie between his hands. Stress stilts his movements. His smile returns, suffering in terms of credibility as his lips stretch rigidly, out of an evolutional reflex. _(fear)._

He prompts, “Garp, then? Don’t tell me it’s Tsuru, I haven’t broken anything valuable by accident as of late.”

Vergo shakes his head and responds calmly, cautiously, “The warlord Donquixote Doflamingo wants to see you in the Warlords’ waiting room. He… _ahem_.. said you’d better hurry up.”

“Fuck.” Rocinante turns around sharply, quickly and thuds his forehead against the window glass. Slanted light casts a silvery white glow on his fringe. His hands almost drop the beanie.

Of course his older brother would call for him to spite him, to taunt him and to humiliate him with a show of authority, of force. His new status is just another abuse to add to his ever-growing list of atrocities. Roci had hoped to avoid his presence altogether today and the cool shower cubicle suddenly strikes him as a good hiding place again. Rage wells up from deep within him, a white-hot feeling he’s come to associate with his brother’s name, with his brother’s intentions and it forces him to right his spine straighter and grit his teeth like the cogs of a machine rolling over one another. This is still his territory and Roci refuses to roll over and play dead at the whims of a monster like his brother.

“Stay in my room, please.” He asks of Vergo as he puts on his beanie and sweeps his marine coat off the chair. “I’d like you to go through my own notes of the interrogations. See if we missed something.” His voice is quivering, but Vergo’s always polite enough to pretend he doesn’t notice.

“Yes, sir.” It’s the most appropriate response, but there’s something defiant in the way he says it, without the proper salute, without the clacking together of heels.

Rocinante steels himself and marches onwards, towards a brother he hasn’t seen in years. He passes by Vergo but gets stopped by a pair of hands on his shoulders, adjusting his coat by the golden-ruffled lapels and smoothing-down the white fabric across his shoulder blades. Sometimes Vergo would do things like this, small-scaled inclinations of servitude and he never can quite shake off the feeling he should look into these more, interpret them as the testimony for something of his past. Sometimes he wonders if Vergo would tie his shoelaces for him, if he bothered to ask.

There are warm strong palms sliding down his sides, a display of intimacy that makes his stomach deflate like a ruined pastry in an oven, a deep voice; “Try not to destroy headquarters, even if you get pissed off.”

No kiss to accompany the advice. Rocinante resists the urge to turn around and pout at him until he caves. Vergo pats him on the back and walks over to the chair behind the desk, he sits down after he’s rummaged through the top drawer and pulled out a notebook, flips through the first few pages and bows himself over the scribbled sentences. His eyebrows soon enough furrow together; Rocinante _knows_ his cursive is awful, that’s why he usually just writes down everything in capital letters.

After heaving a sigh, he strolls out of his room, through the corridor, to the main hallway, down three flights of stairs, into the entry hall and further onwards to the Warlords’ waiting room. His body is moving robotically, automatically, as his mind gets clouded by bloodied memories, exaggerated by the distance in time, by the general fogginess of certain details and by his own retrospection. Doflamingo – _Doffy_ , his older brother who would be on the lookout while his dirtied hands grabbled through trash cans, being urged to search faster, to eat more. Just a flash, a blink of the eye, and the image gets replaced by the one dogging his nightmares. His hands ball into fists as he passes by a boisterous Monkey D. Garp. It doesn’t even register the man said something to him until he was well out of the hallway.

Traumatic doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling of blood and brain matter and pieces of skull on his forehead. Rocinante had been eight and Doffy.. It’s a phantom’s touch, the shape of his own marine-issued pistol in his hand, his index finger stretched on the cylinder for safety.

Two marines flank the main door to the Warlords’ waiting room, but despite the proud posture, Rocinante can see the obvious nervousness on their features, the tremble in their fingers – curved over the hilt of their sheathed swords. It smells like eucalyptus and a hint of mint, but he doesn’t know the source of the scent. His brother is sitting cross-legged on the low coffee table, sipping from a flute of orange juice and staring intently at the marine standing guard on the right with a wicked and unnerving grin. When Roci enters the room, he tilts his head to the left curiously and puts down his drink. Glass chinks unceremoniously onto the wood and he’s surprised the slender foot didn’t shatter.

“You two are dismissed.” He orders briskly as he shakes off the tremor shooting up his right ankle and along his calve.

Doffy chuckles lowly and holds up a hand, showing them his palm, crooks his middle and ring finger and says, “They can stay.” It isn’t like they could move right now, anyway.

Pursing his lips in displeasure, Rocinante stalks over to one of the blue armchairs and pretends the stumble as he sits down was wholly intentional and not a result of him tripping over his own feet. The firm faux-leather squeaks under his unexpected weight. Behind the sunglasses, Doffy is probably watching him intently, judging him intently, looking for a chip in the armor he could exploit. He folds his hands over his abdomen and meets him head-on.

“How have you been, little brother? Your hair’s still as unruly as ever.” His tone of voice is lighter than a feather. And if Roci didn’t know better, he would’ve confused it for kindness, familiarity, fondness.

Self-consciously he reaches out to touch the blond hairs sticking out from under his beanie.

It takes him a moment or two to formulate an appropriate answer, “Been chasing down pirates. I see you’ve gotten a haircut. At least you don’t have to worry about getting a new bounty picture anymore.”

His brother’s grin is like a chasm, a hot wet red mouth with chiseled white teeth, overlapping. Tension strings his muscles taut, like cobweb threads are rigged through them and someone’s pulling at both ends. He rubs the tip of his index finger over the knuckles of his other hand, restlessly.

“And here I was hoping for some hospitality. Don’t they teach you manners around here?” Doffy doesn’t look particularly offended, he just acts the part. He jerks his thumb towards his palm and the two marines tumble forwards, onto the floor.

Rocinante makes a show of rolling his eyes and sinks further into the blue cushions of the fauteuil, crossing his legs out in front of him. “Guests shouldn’t overstep their boundaries, either.” He mumbles, quietly but loud enough for his brother to hear him clearly.

“Stop being such a spoilsport, then.” It comes across as chiding (scolding), but Doffy’s temper hasn’t turned foul just yet. He tips his head backwards and laughs softly, peculiarly before snapping out an order to the two guards, “Get out.”

He sees the pale column of his brother’s throat clearly. He imagines what it would be like to touch the skin there, trace the veins there. It’s a treacherous thought, but a tangible one.

The two marines scramble to their feet, haphazardly and clearly at a loss, trying to support each other upright. One of their swords clatters to the ground again. Doffy perks up at the spectacle, amused and takes another sip of his orange juice. Rocinante hopes someone spat in his drink, just to spite him. Nobody likes the Warlords and as far as Sengoku is considered, they’re nothing more than a necessary evil. The marines know how other pirates refer to them “ _government dogs_ ” and to a point this is a worthy comparison. But the leash isn’t held firmly, not firmly enough at least.

He regards his older brother contemplatively. Maybe a muzzle would be required as well. His lips curl into a self-depreciating smile.

“Why are you here, Doffy?” The nickname comes with a hint of apprehension, it’s been a long while back he last pronounced it out loud. He’s come to associate it with the taste of stale bread and blood.

Reflected in his brother’s sunglasses, he rights his shoulders and controls his sharp breathing. His mirror image is rosé and distorted and no matter how hard he focuses, his brother’s eyes are hidden on the other side. There’s no immediate reprimand, so Rocinante supposes he’s still allowed to use the nickname.

“Can’t I just be curious about you? It’s been a while since I last saw you, as you might recall.” His tone is even, dipped in some ill humor (ill wishes). His large hands curve over his kneecaps as he leans forwards.

The last time they met was under less than opportune circumstances. Sengoku might not have been allowed to use him in the initial infiltration mission – something he has resented and complained about more than a few times especially when the marines who were selected, were sent back in body bags, strung up or cut up – but he had been deployed for the mission on Swallow Island. Things were rough and not just because of the harsh weather. He had no other choice but to give the Ope Ope no Mi to a thirteen year-old Trafalgar Law and extracting him was quite the hassle. Rocinante blinks slowly, instinctually knowing Doflamingo was regarding him intently, with a wolfish grin and an inclination of the head.

Needless to say they parted on extremely bad terms.

Rocinante forces him to mirror his brother’s grin, but he knows it comes across as stunted, half-broken and half-bent, less threatening than intended. He bites out, “So you’re here to bond with me? Excuse me if I’m not that convinced.”

“And here I thought you might’ve been happy to see me.” There’s mockery and a jerk of the chin, upwards. Nothing to indicate if he’s upset, uncomfortable or angry.

Before he can formulate a response – and he knows he’ll just be rephrasing old arguments, dip them down in resentment and bitter memories, Doffy tilts his head backwards and murmurs, “I need to make a trip to the archives. You’ll join me of course.”

“Is that your idea of quality time? Dust and paper?” He prompts immediately, quelling the strange feeling bubbling up in his throat. And as if on cue, his mouth feels paper-dry and it’s like he’s swallowed down a mothball. ~~disgusting~~

Rocinante should’ve known there was a catch. There’s always an ulterior motive, stuck to the underside of his brother’s tongue. He forces himself not to betray his dismay, even if he’s practically bouncing on the spot and dying for a cigarette to douse the bad taste in his mouth with an entirely other one. He’s left his package in his room though and there’s no point in going to retrieve it. His brother wouldn’t let him weasel from under his sight anyway.

Doffy unfolds his legs and presses his knuckles down onto the coffee table before spreading his long legs out in front of him and rising to stand, slowly. His ankles are doused in feathery blonde hairs, spreading all to his calves before the dark fabric of his pants cuts off the sight. It’s not something he should notice, but his eyes don’t stray from the almost feminine shape, thin and slender and deceptively smooth-looking. His thumb twitches automatically.

“Not at all, Roci.” His brother says, pulling him from his stupor as he looks down at him at full height. “Fufufu, just thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

It’s an order, coercion through chuckles and laughs, just like his brother likes it. Roci would just about kill for a cigarette now, something to occupy his mouth before he says something he might regret. The outstretched hand doesn’t look much like a peace offering so he doesn’t feel guilty for not regarding it as such. He’s effortlessly pulled to his feet and his brother’s palm feels warm and smooth and Rocinante wonders if someone bothered to trace the lines across, if someone was allowed to do so. It’s a strange thing to be thinking about so he stops, snaps his gaze back to his brother’s grinning face.

“Lead the way.” Doffy murmurs as he pushes him along, in front of him and falls into his younger brother’s hesitating pace. 

.

Countless of records, documents, intel, charts, maps, biographies, notes, correspondence, books, marine reports, commentaries and files are stacked side by side alphabetically on shelves and in iron-sided drawers. Some of these were confiscated, some of these were compiled by marine scientists or translators. Not all of these are important, but just stand here gathering dust. In the corners of the room are surveillance snails, recording whatever happens inside with unblinking eyes. This is what they see: two brothers delving through trade decrees, through pledges of alliance, through the genealogy of the Donquixote family; two brothers with too much space between them even if one hands the other another sealed file. It’s not as stuffy inside as Rocinante had initially expected, but there’s a fine shimmer of dust on the gray cabinets, glimmering in the well-lit room, like a transparent sheet. His index finger skims over labels, stopping for nothing or nobody.

“Did you know, Roci…” Doffy begins in a voice that only spells out trouble. As if he knows something Rocinante doesn’t, has never thought about until it’s said and done. “That Sengoku keeps your marine file in his desk?”

There’s something comforting about how unpredictable his brother is, something he can count on at least when there’s nothing else to rely on. He grabs a commentary on their great-great grandmother and puts it on top of the others, on the pile of papers he doesn’t really suspect his brother to read thoroughly.

“I didn’t.” He responds tiredly as he shuts the drawer and leans against the wall, “Do I want to know how you know?”

His brother opens the commentary on their great-great grandmother and smoothens the yellowish page with the pad of his thumb before flicking through and furrowing his brows and closing it again, seemingly none the wiser. Another thing inexplicably comforting about his older brother: his tendency to live on the maxim _appearances are deceiving._ Pink feathers rustle as he stacks the commentary third in the pile. On top is now a brief history on the harbor of Dressrosa compiled by government scholars.

Doffy comes to stand next to him, tilts his head back until Roci can glimpse at his eyes from the side, and teases, “I looked, of course.”

“Of course. Look, are we done here?” He wants to get away so badly, because the silence had been companionable, nice even. As a marine he knows the importance of keeping the enemy the enemy. “I was in the middle of something, before you called me like I was some errand boy.”

Pushing himself off the wall again, he moves to put distance between them again, to put action to his words. Doffy punctuates his movements with amused laughter, not caring about the surveillance nor the archivist at the entrance of the room.

What he says next is too stilted to be purely conversational. “I read you wanted to undertake the initial infiltration mission into my family. What a pity Kong declined, I’m sure you were so disappointed, little brother.” His mouth curves into a grin, but it’s an angry one, a dangerous one, composed of shark-like teeth.

“Are we done here, Doffy?” Rocinante asks again (gritting his teeth), back against a book shelf; criminal records, short histories on rulers who are/were allied with the world government, on rulers who aren’t/weren’t. A leather-bound tome containing decade-old bounty posters; picture books with photos or sketches of famous pirates.

They’re not. Rocinante thinks they’ll never be done. They’ll never get done.

“I read your psychological assessment. What they thought you thought, what they thought you thought to be _true_.” Sometimes the things that make you comfortable can scare you, terrify you, this flashes through Roci’s mind when Doffy presses on.

Flash of tongue, his brother’s unbalanced way of walking that’s somehow so much more balanced than his own quick-paced strides, the bright lights of the place falling down onto his shoulders, on his shades – he notices every little detail and wonders how his brother manages to be bigger than the sum of his parts. Doffy’s left hand shoots past his head, the inside of his pale wrist brushes against his hair and ear. The surveillance snails keep recording, wide-eyed and vacant.

“They thought you could _never_ pull a trigger on me. That.” He imagines Doffy looks at him in amusement now, behind those sunglasses, “Is the only thing about you they got right.”

His breath stutters in his lungs and he _needs_ a cigarette so badly now, but the closeness gets replaced by distance almost immediately, the space in between them filled with Doffy’s chuckles, a flurry of them. Doffy holds a thin book on notable scientists in his hand. The cover is blue and laminated, a recent print. Anger surges in his body, but there’s no outlet. He can’t cause a scene, not in HQ, not against a _warlord._

Not even against one that bared his teeth at him in a flaunt, just to prove that he could.

“Why’s that?” He prompts after gathering his wit, straightening his back so the books don’t dig into his skin anymore. He wouldn’t be surprised to see the imprint of the shelves into his arms if he’d roll up his sleeves.

Doffy arches an eyebrow, “Rocinante..” He tests the name on his tongue and it’s the first time today he pronounces it completely. “You’re still my precious little brother, aren’t you? Still our father’s son.”

His expression turns blank for a split-second; so Doffy wagers he’s harmless. He wrings his hands together awkwardly and dips his chin, mutters, “That will never change.”

“You said you thought I was a monster.” He’s paraphrasing what he read in the file, an unsubtle start to an interrogation.

Is his brother trying to determine if he still has purpose or if he’s still in some shape or form allied to himself? Or is he trying to guilt-trip him. It’s always been difficult to see through his older brother’s mask, to tangle through to the center of the spider web. From his peripheral he sees the shell of the recording snail; a glossy orange spotted with the molten white of the bright light. His knees are acting up again and he wants to go lie down, rest for a bit.

The silence must’ve been getting to Doflamingo because he pushes him against the shelves again, with one palm flat upon Roci’s right shoulder, and he questions mockingly, “Now what did I do to make you think and say such ugly things about your brother? Was it father’s death? If you had just stayed with me…”

“You killed our father, Doffy. How could I stay with you _when you cut off our father’s head?_ ” Rocinante interrupts cautiously, forcing himself to establish eye contact. He tries to look as non-threatening as possible, so he slumps his shoulders and lowers his voice.

He scoffs, as if to throw the statement back into his face with a sound of disbelief and suspicion. His voice cloying, when he speaks, “So you joined the marines then? Look where it got you and look where it got me.”

Rocinante _tries to look as non-threatening as possible_. Slowly he raises his hand and places it on top of his brother’s; his mouth pulled into a grimace, his eyes slightly narrowed and his features carefully stilted to show concern. Above his brother’s head, half-concealed in harsh lighting and dark shadows are the unblinking eyes of the recording snail. His chest heaves and sinks.

“Doffy.” Roci begins after wetting his bottom lip – and with the sunglasses on he doesn’t know if Doffy was watching the unconscious movement or not, but slender fingers curve into the fabric of his sweater and his breath hitches in return and this is too intimate for brothers estranged. “I want to help you. I still want to help you, okay?”

Tilt of the head, a grin stretching and widening like a white chasm, a claw-like hand and his brother’s voice, _cruel_ , “Do you now? And what exactly would you be helping me with? Redeeming myself?”

“You said it yourself: I’m your little brother. It’s my _duty_ to help you.” He emphasizes the word duty, stares up at Doffy, tries to drive his point across.

For an instant, the grip seems to loosen, _let up_.

“Then help me, Roci.” Doffy simply says, smugly. “Where’s Law?”

His stomach sinks. His fingers clench around Doffy’s slender and soft wrist. He pushes back, forcefully until his brother’s forced to take a step or two back, until his brother almost bumps into the cabinet behind him. In front of his eyes is the reddish pink of his brother’s sunglasses, expanding, dying everything a deceitful _angry_ red. Roci realizes Doffy is assessing him, _trying him_ and only allows him to shove and push to see how far he’d actually go. He needs a fucking cigarette.

Letting go and composing himself, Rocinante smoothens the fabric of his sweater and shakes his head, murmuring, “Not at the expense of a child, Doffy. I’m not sorry for rescuing Law. For.. Taking him away from you.”

“So my precious little brother bares me his teeth yet again.” His brother sneers, but there’s a hint of amusement there, an indication that maybe _yes_ he passed this test. (whatever the objective of this test might’ve been.)

They both know Rocinante isn’t a threat to him, not at this point at least. They also both know that to preserve his position, Doflamingo can’t touch him either. His eyes fall on the recording snail again; this time he even smiles in the face of that unblinking gaze.

Rocinante then crosses his arms over his chest and deadpans, “You’re here as a warlord, a _government dog-_ you might get that tossed around more often when you decide to go out pirating _._ ”

This time his brother’s hand falls onto his elbow; an almost nonchalant gesture. In his other hand, he’s still holding the thin booklet on government-employed scientists. They now mirror each other’s previous postures: while Doffy had looked imposing before, he now looks more relaxed (non-threatening) aside from the dangerous grin on his face; Roci on the other hand still seems ready to pounce if needed, but his expression is almost stoic.

“Was that a head’s up, little brother? Fufufu, how kind of you.” His fingertips swipe down feather-light as he says this, brush along the side of his hand. Instinctively, Roci makes a fist.

In turn, his older brother only laughs as he notices this. He moves past him, abandoning the pack of documents they’ve spent the majority of the afternoon collecting on top of the cabinet, holding on only to the thin booklet. Rocinante whips around and nearly topples over because his left foot got stuck in his marine coat. His features morph into an indignant expression and he jabs his forefinger in the direction of the paper pile, gaping like a fish on dry land.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He finally bristles, annoyed.

Doffy turns and shrugs, states: “I’ve got everything I need, little brother.” 

He furrows his brows, honestly confused about this entire situation as if he missed something crucial, something significant about that one little book. He asks, exasperated, “Why did you take up so much time then, collecting this and that, when you only wanted _one_ book?”

He motions his brother to follow him as he walks through the narrow pathway between the cabinets and bookshelves, saying with a hint of humor, “I told you we’d be bonding, didn’t I, fufufu.”

Unable to subdue the sarcasm, Roci mutters, “Well, what a wonderful experience it was.”

Their footsteps echo loudly and warn the archivist to look up from his newspaper. Doffy shows him the cover of the booklet in passing, not bothering to wait for a comment or anything. Soon enough they find themselves in the hall again, surrounded by more marines who hardly conceal their questioning stares. Some even manage to look borderline uncomfortable, jumpy even when they pass by. Rocinante sighs and balls his fists as he struts forwards and takes his place at his brother’s side. They take up the entire passage between the two of them.

Doffy muses aloud, “We should do this more often, really. Over dinner or something more appropriate. It’s so disappointingly dusty in here, crowded too.”

“Dinner?” This comes out so terribly unconfident he curses under his breath.

“You’re not deaf, are you? Yes, dinner. Most commonly a perfect occasion to discuss things, interesting things such as… what I’ve read in your file.”

He resists the urge to pinch himself because that tone of voice was _most_ certainly not seductive. While the thought crosses his mind that _yes_ this might be a long shot at finally reforming his brother or at the very least getting close to a semblance of the brotherhood bond they once shared, the uneasiness he felt earlier when he was in the shower cubicle returns full-force. His gaze falls on how close they’re walking together, on how Doffy seems to own the way he walks while he himself sometimes has trouble to stay upright, on how Doffy adjusts his pace to keep them aligned at the shoulders. They’re slowly making their way to the entry hall. Roci suspects they’ll be saying their goodbyes soon enough and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. Sure enough he’ll be reflecting over everything tonight in his bed, trying to scoop through his brother’s intentions and looking for the real one. Overanalyzing.

Doffy stops at the main entrance, puts his hand on his shoulder (not in obtrusive way as before, this time it’s soft and light and _brotherly_ ).

“Oh and Rocinante? A word of brotherly advice, don’t go chasing people the world government doesn’t want you to chase. It’ll smack you in the face, sooner rather than later.” He says this with his familiar grin, wide-stretched and white teeth on full display.

Rocinante thinks his eyes just popped out of his sockets, because how in the hell did his brother know he was working on a case. Baffled, he shrieks, “That’s a closed investigation, how did you…”

He guffaws and it startles a young marine cadet who’s watering one of the plants. With a hollow _thunk_ the red plastic can collides with the floor. Water gushes onto the floor and soaks the marine’s boots. She curses in embarrassment, lowering her head so the brim of her cap hides her eyes. Doffy seems even more delighted by this spectacle and crooks his index, middle and ring finger to make the watering can plop upwards again. It makes a soggy noise this time. But before the girl can scoop the thing up again, his fingers stretch and make the can fall over onto her feet. Roci shakes the hand on his shoulder off and glares at his older brother for bothering the cadet.

Doffy purses his lips together in a sad imitation of a pout before chuckling _perversely_ again. He waves his hand dismissively and reminds him in a teasing tone, “Perks of being a _government dog_ , little brother. I have clearance, remember?”

“Don’t get involved, Doffy.” He warns him, taking full advantage of those two or three inches he has on his older brother.

This time his laughter lasts, makes his shoulders shake along to the motion. He pushes his sunglasses up and informs him matter-of-fact, “Oh, I don’t even have to.”

He snatches Roci’s left wrist and forces him to open his hand and gets a baby snail phone from the pocket of his pants and drops it onto his open palm. Its shell is smooth and cool to the touch, its eyes are squinted shut and it’s snoozing, making a sound close to the customary dial tone, but mumbled, not completely pronounced. Roci looks at the sleeping snail in his hand, brows furrowed, and snaps his gaze to his brother’s face to try and gauge his thoughts. Warm fingers wraps over his own and force him to bend them over the den den. His throat feels like it’s scraped dry with sandpaper. He swallows reflexively, but it’s no use.

“We’ll stay in touch.” Doffy tells him almost conspiringly, before straightening his back and moving to the door. He gives him a mock-salute, two fingers to his forehead, before pushing the door open and maneuvering himself outside, strewing his chuckles around.

Rocinante closes his eyes for a moment, focuses on the weight of the snail phone in his hand.

In retrospect, this meeting could’ve gone _way_ worse.

.

When he gets back to his private quarters, he sees Vergo leaning against his desk, looking extremely tense for some reason. His jaw is set, locked. He jerks his chin up when he hears Rocinante entering the room and frowns noticeably. It takes Roci a split-second to realize how impeccably clean his desk is, without all the paperwork.

“They took away your notes. Our investigation got cancelled by the world government.”

He drops the baby snail phone in shock and almost tumbles over himself when he crouches to scoop it back up. The poor thing blinks up at him, distraught and finally settles to squint at him as if it could pose a real threat. Rocinante pets it awkwardly in response, as some sort of backhand apology. Once he’s back at full height, he looks directly at Vergo. His patience is wearing thin, like a spider’s thread.

“Vergo, would you _please_ hand me my smokes and tell me what the fuck happened here?”

.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Brothers Like Demons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190991) by [ValerieViolette (Perydot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perydot/pseuds/ValerieViolette)




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